Blind Ambition
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Battery, and acid, but fortunately not battery acid.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Many thanks to Owl for her indomitable beta-work. In the words of Harry Cohn, I don't get ulcers, I give 'em.

**Author's Note: **The second season episode "Whatever Happened to Guts?" is really two intersecting tales. In the first, Hardcastle is persuaded by his old colleague, Hank Dremmond, to take over his job "adjudicating" on a TV show called _You Be the Judge. _Hardcastle's initial reluctance, his unexpected success, and Mark's mixed reaction to the whole situation, make for a very interesting turnabout to "Hotshoes". But since this episode was written by Matheson and Szollosi, there's also a Hitchcockian second theme: "Kay", a sweet young thing who had issues with her father, is targeting older men. She's already killed a newscaster from the station where _You Be the Judge_ is produced and now she's set her sights on Hardcastle. A psychiatrist named Stephanie Gary shows up at the estate and asks the judge to meet with Kay. He goes with Dr. Gary, not realizing she is Kay's alter-ego. The psychotic psychiatrist takes him to the same isolated spot where she did in the newscaster. She sprays something in his eyes and then attempts to run him over. The police and Mark arrive in the nick of time and (after Gary is cornered and taken into custody) Hardcastle crawls out of the battered vehicle in which he'd been hiding.

**Blind Ambition**

by L.M. Lewis

He lunged for the car door and tumbled out onto the ground. Whatever she'd sprayed in his eyes, it hadn't done much more than sting a little. He swiped at them with his hand, then his sleeve. Not pepper spray—nothing that bad.

He got them open again just in time to realize she'd backed the car up and was barreling toward him. One part of his brain was busy tagging that as the same M.O. that had been used to kill Noland Ashley, though there wasn't much satisfaction in that since he knew how effective it had been.

He dodged her three times amid the massive concrete pillars that supported the roadway overhead, but on the last pass he realized something else was wrong. Her sedan seemed to shimmer as it came at him—the edges undulating and everything seen as a series of images with an almost stop-action quality. Or it might have been that time had slowed. He wondered if he'd hit his head, falling out of the car.

_Or something in that damn spray_. He stumbled out of the way again, just barely making it this time. He heard a siren and there was a blurry flash of familiar red. It had turned into a chase. He thought he heard the throaty undertones of the Coyote in the painful cacophony.

It was getting harder to keep things sorted out. He felt helpless—underfoot and in the way—with everything blurring into a kaleidoscope of color and motion. There was more red over to his right. For one fleeting moment he'd thought it was Mark, breaking off the chase to pick him up. No, it was something bigger—a pickup.

00000

Mark heard the cop cruiser crash spectacularly somewhere behind him, but didn't turned to check on the damage. His full attention was on the pursuit. Dr. Gary seemed to be the sole occupant of her vehicle. He paralleled her with only a series of concrete towers between them. With a move calculated in a split-second of judgment he accelerated and cut her off, forcing her into a pile of debris.

Her sedan went airborne briefly and then crashed headfirst into a pickup, knocking it sideways a few feet. Her car's hood was crumpled, its radiator spewing steam. Mark scrambled out of his car, yanked open her passenger door, and grabbed her by both arms.

He resisted the urge to shake her. He doubted that it would do any good. The self-possessed professional who had appeared on Hardcastle's doorstep earlier that day was gone. In her place was a smiling, childlike woman.

_She's killed two people._ He hoped to God it wasn't three.

"Where is he?" Mark demanded, trying to cut through the fog of insanity.

It was no use. She simpered at him and said, "Playing hide-and-seek."

He probably would have shaken her then—maybe worse—but he never had a chance to find out. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement at the back end of the pickup she'd plowed into. The tailgate was open and he got a glimpse of familiar blue: a jogging suit and Yankees' cap.

Of all the places to take cover, Hardcastle had managed to hole up at the point of impact. Mark abandoned his prisoner to the arriving cops and turned to the truck, grateful to see the judge alive but worried about the damages.

00000

It had seemed safer than trying to keep some concrete between him and all those moving vehicles, especially since he couldn't even figure out what the hell was coming at him. But no sooner had he crawled into the pickup than he was knocked into the left-hand wall of the shell and then to the floor by a sudden side impact.

In a moment of bewilderment, he thought maybe she'd eluded her pursuers and come after him again. He tried to orient himself, not even sure if the vehicle was still upright. It was, and all he heard now was a sibilant hissing and—yes, he was sure of it—the Coyote, its engine cutting off suddenly.

He crawled toward what he hoped was the back of the truck bed and fumbled with the tailgate, finally getting it open. He heard McCormick and that young woman, though her voice was different again: still eerily childlike but without the earlier petulant anger.

Sirens. Another car, this one must be the cops. Hardcastle almost smiled. Mark had gotten to her first and had made the bust. What had he said the night before? _Chasing the bad guys down, dropping them through the slot—that's what's important._ This woman might not be the standard-issue bad guy that McCormick had been referring to, but she was plenty dangerous.

And, almost as if his thoughts had summoned him, he heard Mark asking him if he was alright. He wasn't all that sure how to answer that, but he threw out a glib comment - something about being famous.

"'Famous'?" McCormick said incredulously, "Try _pounded_."

"Nothin' hurts," Hardcastle reassured him. He scooted forward a little on the tailgate and tried to plant both feet on the ground. Nothing did hurt, but there was an annoyingly detached feeling—almost like floating. He had a sudden urge to feel _terra firma_ under his shoes.

No luck. McCormick was talking again. The judge thought he might have missed something. Whatever it was, Delaney was there now too and Mark was saying something in a more worried tone.

". . . his eyes."

He wondered how the heck anyone could tell. The wavy look of everything being underwater had given way to bright edges, no more useful than the earlier blurring. The judge wasn't sure why he didn't want to share this with anyone, except that he had a creeping notion that his sanity might be in question. Really, how else could a guy explain the past two weeks? Had he really agreed to sit in for Dremmond? And a show about people getting divorced, did that sound like anything real?

Mark was talking again, and it must have been at him, because the words sounded louder, if not more distinct. Hardcastle furrowed his brow and tried to focus on them.

". . . get you checked out . . ."

He wondered if he should tell him about the snakes in his hair. Probably not. McCormick hated snakes. It was strange. They were amazingly sharp—every scale. They almost glowed.

_Medusa_, he thought, but maybe he'd said it out loud because Mark said, "Huh?"

The kid sounded nervous, or at least the snakes turned darker and seemed a little more active. Their red eyes were disturbing, and the judge didn't usually _mind_ snakes all that much.

00000

There weren't any obvious injuries, at least none that Mark could spot on a quick, preliminary inspection, but it was just as obvious that there was something not quite _right_ about the judge. The passive near non sequitur that he'd given in reply to Mark's very simple question had been the first clue.

The second was his eyes. It was not so much the lack of focus, though that was plenty strange. No, what was really disturbing was the darkness—his pupils so dilated that they almost obscured the normal gray-blue of his irises.

Mark shot a glance over his shoulder, still keeping a hand on the judge's arm, trying to get Delaney's attention without shouting. The lieutenant must've seen his expression, or maybe it was just the extent of the damage around them. He strode over, leaving Dr. Gary to his officers.

"Everything okay here?"

"Ah, not so sure." Mark hesitated and then dropped his voice a notch. "Look at his eyes."

There seemed to be no question on the lieutenant's part. Delaney only paused a moment, frowning, before he whirled and headed back toward the squad car.

Mark heard the him issue an order to the man who was relaying information into the radio: "Have 'em send one more ambulance and tell 'em to hustle."

Then his own attention was drawn back to Hardcastle, who was now taking him in with an expression of deepening consternation.

"It's okay," Mark said firmly. "We're just going to get you checked out, that's all."

These assurances didn't appear to be having much effect on the man. He was still shooting concerned looks at McCormick, though it seemed as if he was trying to keep them surreptitious. He muttered something that Mark couldn't quite make out, and that had sounded worried, too.

"Huh?" Mark asked. No, he didn't want to know. He tried to keep his grip on Hardcastle's arm light as he strained to hear the sound of the ambulance. He wanted Delaney to shake that Gary woman for him—find out what the hell kind of Mickey she'd slipped the judge. And how had she gotten him to take it? And what had Nolan Ashley's autopsy shown; he'd definitely died of blunt trauma, hadn't he?

The guy he'd normally address such questions to was sitting in front of him, eyes like saucers, making a totally random reference to Greek mythology.

00000

Hardcastle was sure of it now. _You're losing your grip._

Or maybe there really were flames. It seemed possible. Cars had crashed, hadn't they? But more than that, Hardcastle was troubled by the vivid memory of a metal box in a crematorium.

"It's okay," McCormick said. He might have been trying for reassuring, but he'd ended up in that box, hadn't he?

"Flames," Hardcastle pointed out. He kept it quiet and reasonable. Nobody needed to know he was losing it. But he balked. They weren't going to get _him_ in that box.

McCormick was talking again, but not to him. ". . . he doesn't have to lie down, does he? I mean he's not bleeding or anything. Can't you just take him like this?"

There were other voices, an argument. Shadows against the encroaching flames. He couldn't believe they were having a _discussion_ at a time like this. He almost said as much but Mark had apparently won that round and turned back to him, speaking very earnestly, "Just a short ride. _Please_? For me."

He had a moment of sharp clarity. It was an ambulance, its back doors open and waiting. The red lights at the front end were bouncing flickering reflections off the concrete pillars, nothing more sinister. Mark looked frightened, though—might be flashbacks from that crematorium incident. He reached over with his free hand and patted him on the arm.

"It'll be okay, kiddo."

00000

Mark had felt the man's tension rising, his owlish stare fixed on the ambulance as it had backed in. When the paramedics approached, equipment boxes at the ready and the gurney off-loaded right behind them, Hardcastle started pulling away. Mark tried reassuring him but it was increasingly evident that the judge wasn't open to reason.

So far, though, he appeared to be keeping a grip on himself. He hadn't tried to bolt. He'd even leaned in at one point and confided another single word, muttered in a half-whisper. It hadn't make a whole lot of sense, making Mark even more certain that he needed to get him into that ambulance somehow.

"Look," he said, holding on to Hardcastle with one hand while warding off the paramedics with the other, "I don't think it's such a good thing trying to get him on the stretcher right now."

"Drugs?" the one paramedic cast a questioning glance at their unwilling patient.

"Ah, maybe," Mark said hesitantly, looking around for Delaney. The lieutenant was over by the crashed squad car and the other ambulance, getting his own men's more obvious injuries sorted out.

Mark sighed and turned back to the guys who were confronting him. Nobody here knew he was nobody, and Hardcastle didn't seem to be in a position to speak for himself.

"_Drugged_," he corrected. "Kidnapped, and she probably slipped him something. We don't know what but I think he's seeing stuff."

"Hallucinating?" The paramedic was reaching into his pocket for something. A penlight. He flicked it on. Mark knocked his hand down.

"_Wait_. I mean, that isn't going to tell you what he took, right?"

The paramedic looked disgruntled, but after a half-second's delay finally shrugged his answer and added, "What we need to do is get him to the hospital. Gurney, straps—we'll be there in five minutes, ten tops—"

Mark looked at his too-silent and obviously bewildered friend.

_Straps. _

He glanced back at the paramedics and said, "He doesn't have to lie down, does he? I mean he's not bleeding or anything. Can't you just take him like this?"

"There's rules—"

"Damn the rules," Mark snapped. "He's _confused. _Strap him down—especially after what's happened already—and he'll be upset." He grimaced and added sternly, "You won't like him upset."

He hoped he hadn't oversold it. Next it would be straps and _more_ drugs. And he wasn't even sure he could get Hardcastle into the back of the rig sitting up and under his own power.

He turned to the judge, and tried to keep his voice low and even as he said, "Just a short ride. _Please_? For me."

It might have been wishful thinking but Hardcastle's pupils seemed marginally less dilated, and to Mark's utter surprise the older man leaned in and patted his arm.

"It'll be okay, kiddo."

Mark nodded mutely and then gestured for the paramedics to step back. They did. The gurney was quickly stowed and Mark climbed into the ambulance, never giving up his grip on Hardcastle's arm. A quick boost and the older man was in too, and a moment after that they were underway.

00000

The trip was a blur—there were too many colors and the siren wailed incessantly. McCormick, sitting next to him, still looked worried, but the judge didn't feel up to being reassuring anymore. It seemed as though things were narrowing down and it was damn hard to breathe. He felt a dark foreboding. They were on their way to hell in this noisy box—him and McCormick, and even the suspicious-looking guy sitting across from them. He couldn't quite place him but Hardcastle was increasingly certain he'd seen that face in one of the files.

". . . any pills?"

He jerked, suddenly aware that Mark had been speaking but not sure what he'd said. He turned slightly, reluctant to take his eyes off the man he couldn't quite place. McCormick was saying something else.

"Maybe she had you drink something?"

"Who?"

"Dr. _Gary_."

It was impossible to miss the rising anxiety in Mark's voice._ He sounds kinda paranoid. _The judge couldn't blame him—close call at the crematorium and all, and now this trip to—

He frowned and rasped, "Where the hell are we going?"

00000

Dammit. Mark knew it had been too easy so far. With God knows what rattling around in the man's system and way too much weird stuff having happened already today.

"The hospital," he said, trying not to sound unduly anxious—not even half as anxious as he really was. "Remember?" he coaxed. "You said you'd go."

He was getting one of those deeply dissatisfied Hardcastle frowns, the kind that usually preceded a full-blown chewing-out. Really, at this point Mark didn't think he'd mind that, as long as it kept the man occupied and distracted. He even thought it might be a good sign. Crabby was _normal_ for the judge.

Silence, on the other hand, was scary. It could mean that things were getting worse, or that pressure was building in some concealed reservoir. The timing was lousy. Mark glanced out the small rear window of the rig as they eased to a halt and began backing up slowly. They'd arrived.

"The hospital," he repeated cautiously.

00000

The siren cut out suddenly. For a moment the judge thought his hearing had gone completely, but now he could tell McCormick was speaking again. The words were muddled but he seemed uncharacteristically earnest. No, not so out of character—that was just how he'd sounded the night before.

_Chasing the bad guys down . . . that's what's important._

Hardcastle smiled. The smile seemed out of place considering the circumstances. He was pretty sure they were outnumbered. Mark still looked plenty worried—something about a hospital.

His smile froze. McCormick was bleeding. _Damn. _The judge wasn't sure how he'd missed it before. Good God—his face, his arm. Hardcastle felt a numbing chill as though his own face had drained of blood.

"The bullets weren't supposed to be real," he said with a rising note of fear. "We switched Roy's gun."

00000

It wasn't the response Mark had expected. It took him a moment to catch up— jogging back over nine months of intervening memory to the scam they'd pulled on a bunch of murderous vigilantes.

It took another half second, no longer, for him to consider the mixed blessing of Hardcastle's confusion. All he had to do now was nod in agreement and he knew he could have them both inside that ER with no further resistance.

_All you have to do is lie to him. _

It was at least a lie by omission, and looking at the fear in the judge's eyes, Mark couldn't bring himself to do it.

"No," he said firmly, "they weren't real. The gun was switched; they were blanks. I'm _fine_."

The judge peered at him as though Mark was the one whose sanity was hanging by a thread. "But—"

"That was last winter, remember? And we caught all of them red-handed." Mark swallowed once, thinking that might not be the best metaphor, but Hardcastle still seemed to be mulling it over.

The paramedic was looking a little impatient. Mark shook his head slightly at the man and then turned back to the judge.

"You remember? Me in a towel, and the steam room—we skunked 'em."

He paused, and when the judge broke off staring and nodded, just slightly, Mark smiled in what was meant to be encouragement.

"Okay, so you're having a little trouble—maybe seeing some stuff that doesn't seem right. I think that crazy shrink slipped you something."

The judge frowned at this, but it seemed more like concentration than doubt.

"She got me in the eyes," he said hesitantly. "Some kinda spray."

Mark shot a look at the paramedic, who shrugged again and jerked one thumb toward the ER entrance just behind the rig.

"Okay," Mark said again, this time to both men. Then more specifically to Hardcastle he added, "Let's let the docs take a look at you and try and figure it out, huh? All this stuff you're seeing—it's not real, I promise."

And again the judge took him completely by surprise—no grumbling protests or further wide-eyed ravings. He was still frowning slightly though, as if he weren't quite sure about everything he'd just been told.

But all he muttered was, "Yeah, okay."

00000

Hardcastle had seen this kind of thing before—guys who wouldn't even admit they'd been injured. It came as no surprise that McCormick was doing it. The man hated hospitals. And there might be some kind of post-traumatic shock—or maybe _real _shock. There was enough blood for it. That crazy woman must have shot him after she crashed her car.

Get him into the ER and they'd sort things out. He just wished he could see a little more clearly. He let McCormick go first and winced when the light streamed in as the door of the rig opened—stabs of light, sharp as knives and splintering into a thousand pieces.

He squeezed his eyes shut. It barely helped, but he knew McCormick was somewhere in front of him and probably wouldn't go a step further without some definite nudging. He reached out blindly, intending to encourage him with a shove, and was startled by a firm handclasp that turned into a tug.

He heard somebody say something about how it might be better if he'd lay down on the stretcher, but of course Mark was being stubborn about it so there was none of that. Despite his own discomfort, Hardcastle had to shake his head and smile slightly. He felt a slight pressure change—the sound of mechanical doors opening and a waft of cooler air.

He risked opening his eyes again. He might as well have kept them shut. The painful light was gone but in its place were splotches of purple radiating out, encroaching on everything. The room swayed—_an earthquake_? It was loud enough. Too many voices all talking over each other and nobody listening to him as he tried to explain about the blood.

There was one voice—Mark's—not all that loud but very close to his right ear, saying insistently, "Could you maybe lie down before you fall down?"

It seemed like a good idea, though he'd always heard the best thing in an earthquake was to stand in a doorway.

00000

To Mark's amazement, Hardcastle actually listened to him—or at least he let the staff ease him down onto a gurney and replace the top of his jogging gear with a hospital gown. His eyes seemed increasingly glassy, with little jerks of motion that suggested he still wasn't seeing things for what they were.

Mark turned to the nearest person who wasn't trying to attach monitor leads or otherwise deal with the reluctant patient. It was a guy in a white coat with plastic badge clipped to his pocket that read, 'Dr. Allen'.

He started to explain: kidnapping, some kind of spray in the hands of a psychotic shrink—then Hardcastle interjected peevishly, "And he's still standing there bleeding."

The doc shot a quick glance at one of the other staff members and said, _sotto voce_, "The quiet room, I think."

They adjourned from the hallway. The new venue was only marginally quieter, but at least a little more private. To Mark's relief even here no one had caught on to the fact that he had no official standing. He'd been allowed to accompany them and they'd even made room for him on the far side of the cart during the initial exam. It might have helped that his quick reach for Hardcastle's hand had prevented the man from swinging when the doc tried to use a penlight.

"Bright light bothers him," Mark said, trying to keep a firm grip on things.

"At least I'm not lying about being shot," the judge muttered and then, "What the hell's wrong with my eyes?"

The doc pursed his lips slightly. "What are you seeing?"

"Stuff," Hardcastle hesitated, "colors mostly. I'm not going crazy, am I?" And then he answered himself sternly, "_No_, I'm not."

Mark let out a breath he'd held. He thought the relief was a little premature but this sounded more like the judge.

The doctor held up a hand, three fingers extended. "How many?"

Hardcastle squinted. "Three." He closed his eyes again and shook his head. "God, they're huge . . . kind of pulsing."

"A hallucinogen," the doc suggested. "LSD most likely, but there are others. It's absorbed mucosally: on the tongue. An eye spray—that's weird, but conceivable."

Mark supposed his look of horror must have been apparent.

"It can be scary for the patient sometimes, but the good news," the doc added quickly, "is that if it _is _that—and I really can't think of anything else that works in a small enough dose—then it should subside over a few hours."

"How many is a few?" Mark asked, not feeling all that reassured.

Even less assuring was the doctor's rather casual shrug. "Sprayed in the eyes—that's a new one on me. I can call our toxicologist and run it by him."

"Acid, huh?" Hardcastle spat the word out with a tone of disgust that was obvious. "It figures." He'd kept his eyes closed but had apparently been listening to the whole exchange.

"We'll do a tox screen," the doc continued on, half to himself. "But if it's LSD nothing's going to show up on the preliminaries." Despite that conclusion, he looked happy with his tentative diagnosis. "In the meantime, just observation."

"And," Mark dropped his voice to a whisper, "if it gets worse?"

"We can suppress it."

"Ah . . . ?"

"A hit of Thorazine usually works."

Mark swallowed hard and hoped it wouldn't come to that. He had no chance to voice his opinion about fighting fire with fire before a young man stuck his head through the doorway and said, "Got two greens from a roll-over crash. Cops."

The doc nodded sharply and tossed a quick half-wave as he departed. "We'll monitor him and get that lab work done. You try to just chill."

Mark wasn't sure exactly who that last bit of cheery advice had been aimed at. Hardcastle hadn't responded to it, though almost as soon as the door closed behind the doc and the room actually started to live up to its billing, he broke the silence with a heavy sigh, his eyes still closed.

"You okay?" Mark asked tentatively.

"Dunno. It's like pinwheels and stuff. Better than the blood, though."

"There wasn't any blood. _Really_. That was last winter and it wasn't even real then."

"It looked real," the judge said flatly, but then he opened one eye cautiously, turning his head slowly toward the side of the cart where McCormick stood. He didn't immediately close it. The other soon joined it in a narrow squint.

Mark raised an eyebrow slightly. "No blood?"

"No, not right now," Hardcastle admitted. "No snakes, either."

"Snakes? Ugh. Remind me never to tussle with a crazy shrink."

Hardcastle nodded absently, his gaze wandering again, this time drawn to an otherwise blank part of the wall. He seemed to become more focused.

"What?" Mark asked, noticing the fixity.

Hardcastle stared for a moment longer and then shut his eyes again firmly and said, "It's not real."

"No," Mark agreed, glancing at the blank wall and then up at the monitor and the definite spike in the judge's heart rate. "Stick with the pinwheels for a while, will ya?"

The door opened and a woman in blue scrubs entered. Hardcastle kept his eyes shut while she drew a few tubes of blood and started the IV.

"Just a precaution," she said. "Try to keep this arm straight."

She left, too, but while the door was open Mark heard a familiar voice from the hallway. Hardcastle probably heard it, too—Lieutenant Delaney must have arrived at nearly the same time as his men.

"We need to tell him about that stuff." Mark said. "The evidence guys need to find that bottle and bag it. You want to see him?"

Hardcastle shook his head no. Mark wasn't surprised. What was more surprising that the man wanted any company at all.

"You go tell him," the judge said gruffly—it was the dismissal that Mark had been half-expecting for a few moments now.

He was on the verge of saying "No problem" when Hardcastle added, "Just come back, will ya?"

Mark swallowed again and got his two words out, though they were pitched a little higher than he would have liked and he found himself tacking on, "It'll just take a sec."

Better to leave it at that. He caught Hardcastle's grimace of self-disgust, but it was also true that the man's eyes were still shut, suggesting a persistent preference for pinwheels. Mark squeezed his hand once and let it go.

He slipped out the door. He left it slightly ajar and looked around for the source of the voice, hoping he wouldn't have to go too far. To his relief, Delaney was by the desk at the end of the hall. The lieutenant had apparently been directing inquiries to the staff and must have been happy with the replies. He looked up, caught sight of Mark and tempered his pleased expression.

"Your guys okay?" Mark asked.

Delaney's smile was back, and he observed, "If you've got to roll a car, make it a Crown Vic. Just a couple bumps and bruises. The squad's a total, though. How's Milt?"

Mark cast a quick glance over his shoulder, judging the distance from the doorway and lowering his voice accordingly. "Better . . . I think. I don't know if you heard but—"

"The doc who who's looking after my men said something about it." Delaney nodded toward Allen, deep in conference with an older doctor on the far side of the work station.

"Yeah, well, she sprayed something in his face—his _eyes_. The doc thought maybe LSD." Mark grimaced. "You said she really is a shrink?" The hasty explanation he'd been given about the woman's fingerprints now seemed like a lifetime ago.

"The real deal," Delaney assured him. "Dr. Stephanie Gary, M.D.—licensed by the State of California. I had 'em take her to County for an eval."

There was no difficulty hearing Delaney's voice even above the chattering noise of the busy ER and the older doctor looked up sharply. He said something further to Allen and then they both headed toward the lieutenant.

"This is Dr. Ushap, our toxicologist," Allen said to Mark.

The older doctor turned straight to Delaney, peering slightly over his bifocals. "I heard you mention Dr. Gary—the psychiatrist?"

Delaney nodded.

Ushap cocked his head slightly at his younger colleague. "It's a clinical diagnosis, of course. Your tox screen won't help, but Gary involved—that's a helluva coincidence."

"What _kind_ of coincidence?" Mark interjected impatiently.

"Her father," Ushap frowned. "Dr. Xavier Gary, he had quite a reputation in the late fifties. 'Better living through chemistry'—conducted hundreds of experiments using hallucinogens on psychiatric patients. Except it turned out a lot of them didn't know what they were being given. Eventually he lost his license."

"Dr. X," Allen said. "I remember hearing that story. He's dead, isn't he?"

Ushap nodded. "Not that long ago—a couple years maybe. Overdose and a car accident."

"Well," Mark shot Delaney a knowing glance, "you'll never prove _that_ one."

The lieutenant shrugged. "I'll settle for the two murders—with a kidnapping and battery thrown in."

"I think you're going to have to settle for 'not guilty by reason of insanity'," Mark replied regretfully. "But make sure your evidence techs keep an eye out for that stuff she used—some kind of spray bottle, still in her car probably." His face, already slightly downcast, froze for a moment. Then his brow furrowed and he looked up again at Delaney.

"Don't worry." The lieutenant grinned. "I had 'em tow the Coyote to the station. You left the keys in the ignition—that's how come I knew Milt must be in bad shape." He shook his head and scrabbled in the pocket of his suit jacket, extracting a key ring and dangling it.

Mark snatched it and plunged it into his own pocket with a look of embarrassed relief and a muttered, "Thanks." Then, a little more hopefully, he said, "They used a flatbed, didn't they?"

"Yeah, yeah," Delaney waved his concern off with one hand, "couldn't have you bitching about the undercarriage."

The two docs had gone back to their own discussion and were drifting in the direction of Hardcastle's room. Mark glanced at them and furrowed his brow.

"I better get back in there."

"I need to ask him a few questions, too," Delaney said.

Mark, who'd already taken a couple steps down the hall, turned back toward the detective. "Ah—" he knew what Hardcastle had said, and he understood why the man might not want visitors right now, but it was damn awkward being the bearer of the tidings, "maybe—"

"Not right now, huh?" Delaney finished for him. The lieutenant looked remarkably understanding about the whole thing and not even a bit surprised that McCormick was returning to the room. Mark hesitated for a moment, wanting to explain that it was all the judge's idea, but that hardly seemed necessary. Delaney was shooing him off with a kindly, "Go on—get back there and keep him from chewing those docs out."

He nodded once and scuttled down the hall. He slipped past the two doctors—who'd paused to look at something on a chart that was presumably Hardcastle's—and ducked into the room.

The judge was right where he'd left him. He'd opened his eyes, squinting again, as Mark came in.

"You okay?" Mark asked.

"'Course I am," Hardcastle groused. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you _sound_ better . . . grouchier, anyway," Mark said, trying to keep a smile off his face. "Delaney said his guys are mostly okay, too. They smashed up a squad car."

"I think I saw that—it really happened, huh?"

"Yup."

Mark sidled over to his former place next to the gurney but the judge seemed past needing his hand held. That was a relief. There was something disconcerting about Hardcastle needing anything—or anybody.

"There's another doc out there, Ush-something—Ushap. Anyway, sounds like Dr. Gary might've done in her old man, too. Not that maybe he didn't deserve it," Mark added thoughtfully. "You ought be careful about this father-figure thing."

"Hah—"

Whatever the judge intended to append to that all-purpose response, it was cut off by the door opening again and the entrance of the two doctors. The follow-up exam was brief, after which the toxicologist cut to the point.

"The recovery curve has been consistent with LSD, though I would expect residual effects for a few more hours or even longer."

"What kind of effects?" Mark interjected.

"Things still look kind of . . . colorful," Hardcastle said quietly.

"'Results may vary'," Ushap quipped, with the cheerful demeanor of a man whose scale of bad has been calibrated to include cyanide. "Impulse control, judgment issues—I wouldn't advise buying a car for the next day or so."

"Hmmph," his patient said, and then, "but I can go home?"

Ushap's quick glance took in Mark before settling on the judge again. "You'll have a responsible adult there?"

"No, just McCormick." Hardcastle hooked his thumb sharply left.

Ushap laughed lightly. "You'll need to take it easy for a couple of days and follow-up with your regular doctor in about a week." Then he turned to his colleague and said, "Might be a reportable case, if the tox results confirm it: absorption via ocular mucosa."

Allen gave that an eager nod as both men departed without further good-byes.

Mark shook his head. "You're 'reportable'—is that good or bad?"

"Depends on what they're reporting, I guess," Hardcastle sighed.

Mark shifted his gaze back to him. "You _are_ okay, aren't you?" He held up three fingers and asked, "How many?"

"Three," the judge said warily. "No blood." And then, after a moment, "That wasn't real, huh?"

"Not today—no."

The door opened again. The woman in blue scrubs had returned. "We can DC that line of yours. Dr. Allen is writing up your discharge papers."

Hardcastle was the model patient as he held his arm out for her. It wasn't until after she'd left that he sighed again.

"Okay," Mark said, "all that sighing, you think that's one of the side effects?"

"Yeah, maybe . . . sort of—I mean, let's face it, I was snookered. Fine judge I was, letting somebody put one over on me like that."

"She fooled me, too." Mark looked willing to shoulder his share of the blame. "Hell, she fooled _everybody_."

"Yeah, but in my case it was buying that business about only me being able to sort out this patient of hers. That should've tipped me off right there."

"Why?"

"Well, I'd say if it stinks like fish bait it's probably got a hook in it, kiddo." He wrinkled his nose as if he could smell it even now. "Must be those studio lights."

The apparent non sequitur raised Mark's worry quotient a half-notch before Hardcastle added, "I think they make your brain soft. All those goofy people waving signs and naming their dogs 'Milton'—makes you think you're something special."

"You are."

Mark wasn't sure who was more surprise by the two words he'd uttered—him or the judge. In the moment of embarrassed silence that followed he had to resist the urge to explain it away—that would have only been more awkward. Besides, he was pretty sure he'd meant what he'd said.

It was a matter of good fortune that the nurse reappeared at that moment, papers in hand. Checking the blood pressure and detaching the monitor leads provided a distraction, and then there was the matter of finding Hardcastle's belongings—they'd been stuffed hastily into a bag and shoved under the cart.

Eventually, though, they got everything sorted out, with Mark doing most of the sorting. The judge was disconcertingly passive through the whole process. Mark could see his pupils were still slightly dilated, and not just his gaze but his whole demeanor was unfocused.

"You ready?" Mark finally asked, patting his own pocket and starting to reach into it for his keys. "Oh—" he stared down at them and muttered, "damn."

"What?"

"We need a ride to the station."

Hardcastle's sharp glance was a lot less passive. "I don't wan—"

"To get the Coyote," Mark interjected. "Delaney had it towed over there. Hey, he's probably still around. Maybe we can—"

"Take a cab," the judge said firmly.

Mark stared at him for a moment. The man looked adamant, or at least as adamant as someone could look when they were still not quite in focus. It was McCormick's turn to sigh.

"I dunno. It's not like you have to _avoid _people. Some crazy woman comes after you—it's Not. Your. Fault." he said with measured emphasis.

"Let's just say I've had enough of the spotlight." Hardcastle looked determined.

Mark finally caved. "All right. I suppose it's as safe there as anywhere. A cab." He shook his head. "Too bad he didn't put it in impound. All this secrecy—we could've grabbed some hamburger and scaled the fence."

The judge shuddered almost invisibly. At first Mark thought it merely distaste at the reminder of an investigatory indiscretion, but the man's pupils seemed slightly more dilated.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly.

There was no immediate response, except maybe to some purely internal cues. Then, just about when Mark was ready to summon help, Hardcastle shuddered again as if he were shaking himself free from something. He closed his eyes for a long second and then opened them.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said.

It was a patent lie but his recovery time seemed to be improving. Nothing anyone had done for him here seemed to have contributed to that.

Mark issued a sigh of his own and said, "Let's go home."

00000

The images were less frequent, but no less disturbing. He had a fairly firm grasp of the notion that much of it wasn't real, but it was still hard tell where the border was between the real and the rest. Just now he'd had a glimpse of a pack of slavering dogs—too immediate and vivid to call mere memory.

And oozing out around that were shadows of doubt—not that he still thought he was going crazy. He was pretty sure that if he were, McCormick would let him know.

No, this was a deeper, more pervasive bugaboo: the question of his judgment.

_Kenny Longren, Artie Farnell, J.J. Beale._

"You ready?"

There was no blood. Not today. Mark had said so. He nodded and ignored the younger man's frown. He let him take his elbow. McCormick had a real gift for getting in and out of places. He'd handle the dogs. Hell, he'd summon up a helicopter if necessary.

Hardcastle pasted on his best imitation of a smile and resisted the urge to close his eyes—though he thought maybe he had.

They were outside, and somehow it had become nightfall, with the sky in the west shot red. It was so damn beautiful he just wanted to stand and stare at it, but McCormick had the door of the taxi open and was tugging at him, a worried, impatient expression on his face.

Hardcastle said nothing about the sunset—assuming it actually was the sunset. He was _pretty_ sure it was the damn sunset. But he'd also been sure that young woman had been making a sincere request, and that Mark had been bleeding . . . and that he'd been guilty four years ago.

He froze at that unbidden thought, but after a moment became almost certain that he hadn't been thinking out loud. His shoulders lost a little of their stiffness and he sneaked a sideward glance at the man in the seat next to him. McCormick was leaning forward—absolutely oblivious to the sunset and the blood—giving directions to the cabbie.

Home.

The judge smiled again, and this time it felt more real.

The red deepened into purple as they drove, and by the time they'd reached Gull's Way even the purple was darkening to black. Despite that, Hardcastle felt as though he could see more clearly than before. He unfastened the latch and climbed out of the car almost as soon as it had pulled to a stop between the fountain and the front steps.

He was vaguely aware of the voices behind him—McCormick settling up with the cabbie. The house was dark—not so much as a porch light. He didn't feel any urgent need to go inside. There was a hint of silver to everything, brightening by the moment as the rising moon crested the hills. He strolled around the side of the house, toward the pool and the eastern view.

There were more noises, distant and unimportant—the cab driving off. Then McCormick's insistent voice calling his name—an anxious, rising tone that made the judge pause just for a moment and say, "I'm over here."

"Where the hell—" McCormick rasped, much closer and breathing a little hard, then a rattling sound as though a flowerpot might have been knocked askew.

"Dammit, how can you see anything out here?"

"Look," Hardcastle gestured, taking in the view—the cloud-chased moon rising silently over the arc of the bay, "it's—"

"Beautiful. Yeah. Wanna go in?" Mark still sounded concerned. Hardcastle wasn't sure why. The moonlight had washed away every trace of the red.

"In a minute."

"You sure you're okay?"

Of course he was. It was a serenely silver world—not exactly black and white, but close enough.

"I'm fine," he said. "Really, fine." He wasn't sure why McCormick worried so much; didn't everything turn out okay in the end?


	2. Chapter 2

Mark had turned his back on Hardcastle for only a few seconds, just long enough to settle things with the cabbie. He'd hardly expected the man to choose that moment to wander off. But by the time he'd finished paying their driver and turned around again, there was no sign of the judge. The house was dark and the front door closed.

Mark swallowed hard, staring, _straining _to see into the darkness.

"Dammit," he muttered and then he hollered, "_Hardcastle_?"

He was relieved to hear a matter-of-fact reply come from the direction of the back yard. He loped along the west side of the house, half-stumbling over one of the planters. Candles being in short supply, he cursed the darkness. But at least he'd finally caught up with the judge, who was standing there—perilously close to the steep drop-off at the back of the property—gesturing at the view.

The moon had risen, and through a break in the clouds it was doing an inefficient job of providing illumination. Hardcastle was staring at it with a poorly-lit expression of unadulterated admiration.

All right, it was beautiful, Mark supposed, but he thought it could be appreciated just as well from a spot not so close to the edge. He said as much, and wasn't all that surprised when Hardcastle balked. Mark stepped in closer cautiously, wondering if the judge's discharge from the emergency room hadn't been a little premature.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm fine," Hardcastle said. "Really, fine."

He looked as though he meant it. Mark couldn't make out his pupils—and he supposed even his own would have appeared large in the dim light—but the judge's demeanor seemed reasonable enough, even calm.

Mark let out the judgmental breath he'd been holding and felt himself relax a little. He turned to take in the sweep of Santa Monica Bay and the glittering evening skyline of Los Angeles. It really was beautiful.

"Long day," he said, glad it was finally over and he'd gotten Hardcastle home in one more-or-less intact piece. He glanced sideward at the man and asked, "You hungry?"

The judge was still studying the moon, as someone might consider a particularly intricate work of art, his head cocked slightly. It took him a moment before he responded with a thoughtful, "Maybe—a little I guess."

Mark tried to remember what their dinner plans had been—Hardcastle was supposed to have been heading over to the studio for some publicity shots and an interview. He shook his head in weary disbelief. The part of today that was before the kidnapping and attempted murder seemed a long time back. It was hard to accept that the day's events could have fitted between a single sunrise and sunset.

"How 'bout pizza?" he suggested. That was a pretty typical _après _chase meal at the estate, especially if no one felt up to cooking. "But let's go inside, okay?"

Hardcastle gave up his lunar meditations with a last regretful glance, but seemed to understand that he wouldn't be permitted to wander around by himself. He didn't even look all that put out when Mark waited for him to precede as they turned toward the house.

Mark let him lead the way—past the pool, where he paused for a moment to stare at the shimmering moonlit iridescence—and up the steps to the back door.

"Wait." Mark extracted his key ring from his pocket and slipped past the judge, reaching for the lock. "Might want to close your eyes for a sec," he warned as he opened the door and then flipped the switch just inside.

A sharp wedge of light spilled out onto the landing and down into the back yard. He heard Hardcastle grunt, having apparently decided incorrectly that he'd be okay with the sudden shift in lighting.

"You alright?" Mark glanced over his shoulder and saw him back against the railing, squinting into the kitchen warily.

"Yeah," the judge grumbled, but it was a moment before he detached himself from that corner and edged inside, eyes still nearly shut.

Mark steered him toward the table and pulled a chair out for him. Hardcastle lowered himself into it and gradually settled back, still at a near-squint, only gradually opening his eyes more fully. They were still dark, but nothing like they'd been earlier that afternoon.

Mark tried to turn his sigh of relief into something else as he reached for the phone on the counter.

"The usual?" he asked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a distracted nod. He placed their order and asked for delivery. "Forty-five minutes," he said to the judge as he hung up. "I shoulda told 'em you're a TV celebrity."

Hardcastle's air of distraction vanished, replaced by a sharper gaze and a grim set to his mouth. He looked on the verge of adding his considered opinion to that comment when the phone rang, startling them both.

Mark twitched—a spontaneous response that couldn't be completely concealed by his quick grab for the reciever. The judge's version was even more obvious evidence that things weren't as back to normal as they seemed.

Mark's tentative "Hello?" was answered with a fast interrogatory patter from a vaguely familiar and harried voice: "_You're there—good,_" and then in a more distant voice, not directed toward the mouthpiece, "_Found 'em. They're at Judge Hardcastle's estate._"

From further away still came a querulous, "_What the hell are they doing there?_"

But the more proximate speaker wasn't wholly satisfied yet. "_He __is__ there with you isn't he? We thought we'd catch you at the hospital. Damn—why'd you hightail it out of here in such a hurry? We've already missed the seven o'clock deadline, but if we hustle we can have film at eleven—_"

A name slipped into position from Mark's recent memory like a piece in a puzzle: Kendall Simmons—the late Nolan Ashley's partner at the KCSZ news desk.

"—_Just stay put and we'll get a camera crew and a reporter over to you._"

"Wait a sec," Mark said wearily.

He lowered the phone and didn't bother putting his hand over the mouthpiece. Hardcastle, having only heard the one word of greeting, was giving him a non-specific frown.

"It's one of the news guys from the station," Mark informed him, trying not to inject too much of his own opinion about things. "Your employers want an exclusive."

"My _former _employers," Hardcastle said acidly. "Dremmond oughta be back on his feet by Monday, don'tcha think?"

Mark stifled a smile. It had been too much a near-run thing to be smiling so soon—or maybe the closest calls also summoned the greatest relief. To the guy on the other end he only said, "You hear that? 'No comment'."

"Ma-ark," Kendall wheedled, "talk to him, will ya? It's sweeps month!"

Mark wasn't even sure how this guy knew his name. He supposed it could be considered a useful thing to be pals with the flunky.

He didn't bother to repeat the man's last comment to the judge. He only said, with what little patience he had left, "Listen, Ken, go talk to your station head. He's got this great program concept that'd be perfect for you: divorce, Hawaii—what's not to like? In the meantime, we're only opening the gate for the pizza guy and I'm gonna ask _him_ for credentials. Okay?"

He glanced across the table toward Hardcastle to see if there was anything else he wanted to add. All he got was a sideways wave of the hand. He didn't give Ken a chance to reply before he hung up, looking at the phone for a moment with distaste.

"Think they'll call back?" he asked.

"Not if we take the phone of the hook."

Mark gave that a moment's thought and a sharp nod of agreement as he picked up the receiver again and set it down on the counter.

"Wanna go in the den? Or we could hide out in the gatehouse."

"The den, I think." Hardcastle got to his feet slowly, leaning on the table as though he mistrusted his balance.

Mark didn't ask him if he needed a hand. It seemed a real possibility and a reflexive "No" would just make things awkward. Instead he stayed close enough to be unobtrusively handy.

Hardcastle steered his own way to the front of the house without assistance, even managing to navigate around the bucket and mop that had been abandoned in the front hallway. Mark stared at it for a second, feeling an echo of the gut-clenching fear that he'd experienced that afternoon when Delaney had told him about Dr. Gray.

He started breathing again. He moved the items aside without comment and followed Hardcastle into the den. The judge hadn't made for his usual seat behind his desk, settling himself in one of the leather wingbacks instead. Mark was barely seated in the other one when he heard the judge clear his throat.

"I'm okay, ya know," Hardcastle grumbled. "You don't have to . . ."

"Hover?" Mark suggested. "I'm not." He leaned back ostentatiously and put his ankle up on the opposite knee—the very antithesis of a hover. "I am trying to be the responsible adult though, and as you like to point out, I need all the practice I can get."

He got a hint of a smile from the judge and then another less focused moment of staring that strung out for a bit.

"You _are_ okay?"

Hardcastle nodded. The stare went on, though and he finally admitted, "The colors and all that . . . they're kinda interesting—once you know it's all fake. Still," he frowned—with an air that was more puzzled than unhappy, "even when you know it's not all real, things feel kinda . . . slippery."

Mark thought about that for a moment and then said, "You mean like 'hard to get a grip on'. Like things could get away from you if you aren't careful?"

He got another nod.

"Well, don't worry about it," Mark said quietly. "That's what I'm here for."

The judge pried himself loose from his stare with what seemed to be a bit of effort and shifted his sharpened look toward McCormick.

"You ever take any of this stuff?"

"_Me_? Uh-uh." Mark grimaced momentarily. "Trips . . . _flashbacks_. Nah. Not my thing. Not compatible with driving fast and living to tell about it. Driving—_racing_—that's enough of a high," he added in a philosophical tone.

"But you don't get to do that much anymore."

"Says who?" Mark smiled. "You shoulda seen me this afternoon."

"I did . . . sorta." Hardcastle's brow furrowed a little, though it seemed more like intent recollection, not displeasure. "Thanks," he said with a nod of acknowledgment in McCormick's direction. "How'd you get there so fast? How'd ya even know where—"

"To look? " Mark's smile was gone. He hoped the judge's vision was not one-hundred percent. "When Delaney came by and dropped the bomb about Gary, the first thing that popped in my head was that place where she ran down Ashley."

That hadn't been exactly the first thing, but the graphic post-mortem photos of that earlier victim with the judge's image superimposed would hardly make a good pre-dinner conversational gambit.

"It was in the report," Mark added with studied casualness. "Remember?"

Hardcastle nodded. He was staring again but this time it ended with a muttered, "I recognized the place when she pulled in there." He sighed.

"Back to that, huh?"

"What?"

"That sighing thing. You really do need a responsible adult, Hardcase." Mark shook his head. "She _was_ a real psychiatrist—at least when she showed up here she was. You trying to give her a hand with her problem seemed like a decent thing to do."

"I thought I could handle her, even after I figured out things weren't kosher."

"Yeah, well, looks like she doesn't weigh much more than ninety pounds soaking wet."

"But she'd nailed Nolan Ashley—and I should have remembered that. A good cop will tell you the first time you get careless can be the last."

Mark, who had no aspirations to be any kind of cop, still had to nod at the truth of this. "Okay, so you had an off day. Even the Lone Ranger got bushwhacked once in a while. That's why he kept Tonto around, right?—To watch his back."

This time the judge cocked a genuine half-smile, and further maudlin reflections were cut off by a ring of the doorbell.

Mark straightened up and leaned forward in his chair. He was relieved to see 'Tony's Pizza Palace' on the van out front rather than a KSCZ news logo. He clambered to his feet.

"Top drawer on the right," Hardcastle said, as though he hadn't sent him there a dozen times in the past year. Then he frowned and added, "How much was the cab ride?"

"More than you want to know," Mark said cheerfully as he fished the requisite cash out of the household kitty. "And I don't want to hear any complaints. You could have just paid for gas with the Coyote."

The guy on the front step leaned on the bell again. Mark hustled a little, beating the third ring. Pizza box and money changed hands. He backed into the door to shut it, carried the box into the den, and put it down on the coffee table.

"Might as well eat in here," he said, trying to make it sound like a routine nod to mutual fatigue rather than some sort of comment on the judge being less than one-hundred percent. He thought he probably ruined the effect by adding, "You stay here—I'll go grab us some plates."

The judge said nothing. He didn't even reach for the box to sneak out his typical preview sample.

Mark hustled again, though this time not till he was out of sight—scuttling down the hall and back into the kitchen. He gathered plates, a handful of napkins, and forks, just in case. Then he tugged on the door of the fridge. He paused, his hand poised over a couple of long-necks. One beer probably wouldn't make all that much difference, but he abruptly decided the judge didn't need anything that would contribute to his already shaky grip on reality. He changed his trajectory slightly and snagged two sodas from the other shelf instead.

Hardcastle was sitting where he'd left him. Though the pizza was still intact, at least he'd made the effort to open the box. Mark was surprised at the hunger pang that struck him with the first waft: extra-cheese, onion, mushroom, green pepper, and pepperoni. He handed the judge one of the bottles and started loading up two plates.

The judge stared at his drink with a look that was a little too dark to be merely jaundiced. "Not real," he said in a tone that was just audible, and more weary than tense.

Mark spared a glance for the object of his consternation. "Of course not," he said bluntly, "it's Pinky Fizz. What's it look like to you?"

"Um," Hardcastle hesitated, "kinda, I dunno," he looked a tad shifty for an officer of the court, and he lowered his voice a notch, "_radioactive_."

"Hmm," Mark picked up his own bottle and gazed at it, "might improve the flavor." He took a swig, then shook his head as he put the bottle down. It definitely wasn't the right accompaniment for the meal, but if Hardcastle was campaigning for a beer with his pizza he'd come to the wrong responsible adult.

"Here." He handed a plate over. The judge accepted it without any additional sideways looks, for which Mark was grateful, and they both settled in.

Mark's new-found appetite demolished his first couple of pieces while the judge chewed with what looked like distraction, as though his mind were elsewhere and he was just eating to be polite. Polite wasn't Hardcastle's usual M.O. and Mark wondered how far the disturbing perceptions extended.

He cleared his throat hesitantly and said, "It doesn't taste funny or anything?"

The judge seemed startled, as if he'd been yanked out of a reverie. He looked at the piece of pizza in his hand—_really_ looked at—and finally shook his head, and the rest of the meal passed in silence.

Mark was standing, gathering up the plates and the box, when a set of headlight beams tracked across the back wall. He half-turned, already scowling, figuring he'd be running Kendall and his news crew off after all, but the set of the lights and the profile of the vehicle said _sedan_.

The engine cut out and with it the headlights. In the relative darkness he could actually see the car's outline more clearly, as well as the man who was exiting it.

"You can run but you can't hide," he said over his shoulder to the judge. "It's Delaney." Then he switched tacks to his archest butler voice. "Are we receiving visitors?"

Hardcastle scowled but didn't back that up with any demands. Mark probably would have ignored them anyhow. He returned the remains of the pizza to the coffee table and mounted the two steps to the hallway.

This time he beat the bell entirely, though Delaney had gotten to the front stoop at a pace that suggested more than a social call. As Mark opened the door the lieutenant froze momentarily. A brief look of relief was chased off his face by a more permanent expression of disgruntlement.

"Your phone's not working," he said flatly.

"Ah . . ." Mark attempted a smile and thought better of it. "It's not my phone."

The lieutenant did not look amused. "I almost sent a squad car here but the guys down at County convinced me that Gary woman was working alone."

"We took it off the hook. The news guys were annoying him."

Delaney gave that a short consideration and a sharp nod. It might have even been that he'd been glad for an excuse to come over. The grim look was mostly gone.

"How's he doing?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Mark beckoned him in with one hand.

The lieutenant edged by, peering around the corner as if he weren't too sure how he'd be received.

Hardcastle gave him a weary wave from the wingback and said, "I'm fine—how are those guys of yours?"

"Home—ice packs and band-aids."

"Well, thank 'em for me. I appreciate the effort."

"All in a day's work; you know that Milt. Though, I'll admit I can't remember the last time I saw a squad car that jacked up."

"Lucky it was a closed course," Mark observed dryly. "If she'd freaked out on the way over there—"

He paused on that thought and all three men considered it with nearly identical grim expressions: an even higher-speed chase ending in a multi-car pile-up.

Hardcastle shrugged it off first. "Just a good thing you got there when you did. I was getting a little woozy."

Delaney cocked his head, studying him a little more closely. "That part's okay now?"

Another shrug—this one a little too studied—but Mark kept his mouth shut and Delaney seemed satisfied.

"We can wait on the statement," he said. "We've got Gary on a seventy-two hour psych eval anyway. No arraignment till we get her back from there."

"As long as she's off the street."

The judge left it at that. The other two men didn't add anything. Mark had a little trouble with that much _scheming_ getting written off as 'not guilty', but he suspected he was too close to the victim to be objective. He tried to suppress that awkward notion but there really was no denying it—not with the bucket and mop standing silent testimony to how he'd felt when he realized he'd let Hardcase go off with a serial killer.

He shook his head slightly to clear it, relieved to find that no one had taken notice of his moment of self-awareness. Delaney and Hardcastle were making vague plans for a formal statement in a day or so.

"I'll have to drive McCormick down there tomorrow anyway to pick up his car," the judge said with an air of bluff confidence that he'd be up to it by morning.

Mark kept his expression perfectly bland, as befitted a responsible adult who'd decided they could cross that bridge when they came to it. Delaney must have also figured there'd been enough discussion for one day. He bid them both good night. Mark saw him to the door and fastened it behind him. Then he leaned back against it for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

Oddly, among the other things he was sorting through, he felt just the tiniest bit of gratitude toward Dr. Gary. He'd never seen Hardcastle shy away from any kind of confrontation with the bad guys, but random attacks from unhinged female admirers appeared to be more than even he would put up with. She'd driven the final nail into the judge's career as a TV celebrity.

Mark glanced at the mop and bucket again, then abruptly detached himself from the door and headed back into the den. The judge was sitting, looking equally pensive. Mark dropped back into the wingback opposite his, not bothering to carry the leftovers away.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he said cheerfully.

Hardcastle gave that only the briefest of considerations before he scowled in the general direction of the television. Apparently old movies were on the same black list as "indie-syndie" programs like _You Be the Judge_—at least for the time being.

"Just a suggestion." Mark shrugged. "I just thought it's kind of early to call it a night."

He went back to gathering up the remains of dinner, trying to ignore the judge's persistent look of disgust. After all, for once it wasn't directed at him. It was damn penetrating though, and Mark thought it was only a matter of time before it left permanent stains. He straightened up from his self-appointed chore and skewered the older man with a penetrating look of his own.

"Do you believe in destiny?"

"Huh?"

"_Destiny_," Mark repeated, with a little more emphasis.

The judge seemed to consider this for a moment and then said, "You mean destiny like 'Que Sera, Sera'? or destiny like 'everything happens for a reason'?"

At least he had the man's attention, Mark figured, and though he wasn't sure he liked that second definition too much, it was regrettably closer to what he'd meant.

"The second one," he said nervously. "But maybe not 'everything'—just _some_ things. Like you doing that favor for Dremmond, taking over that stupid show. Just a favor, for a friend. You didn't even _want_ to do it."

"Hmmph."

"Well, you didn't. I had to nudge you a little."

"Yeah, _so_?" Hardcastle gumped. "I caught on to it quick enough, don'tcha think?"

He was squinting less. Mark thought the drug must be finally wearing off, which meant it was well and truly time to get over this funk.

"Anyway," the judge continued, "I never liked that 'Que Sera' kind—makes it too easy for people to blame everything on fate. I've always believed in free will."

Mark had already known that implicitly, but he also thought a person could exercise a whole bunch of free will and still end up a victim—or a tool—of Providence. How else could he explain the confluence of events that had brought him to the doorstep of Hardcastle's Washington D.C. hotel a year ago, just in time to prevent his kidnapping and murder?

He wasn't about to use that example, though, not with this far more recent one at hand.

"So," he said, "you did a favor for a friend, and it turned out that you were pretty good at it—different, anyway, and people were tired of the same old thing, so different was good—"

This much was straightforward and got him a wary nod.

"—and if you hadn't exercised a little free will there and been your usually hard-nosed self, then it wouldn't have been such a big hit, and Dr. Gary, or whoever she thought she was, wouldn't have mistook you for her father—or whatever. And who else would have poked around and found those music boxes after Elaine Kemp was killed?"

"You did."

Mark drew back indignantly.

"Well, you're the guy who picked the lock on her desk," Hardcastle pointed out.

"With you looking over my shoulder," Mark snorted. "Anyway," he observed, "I wouldn't have been there if you hadn't been, so it's all the same. I _don't_ have any free will half the time, just an errand list."

Hardcastle's expression was a little less accepting, but he didn't argue.

"So . . ." Mark concluded slowly, "the way I see it, if you hadn't done exactly what you did—if it hadn't been _you_ doing it—Dr. Gary might have picked some other cheesy TV personality. Hell, maybe a whole series of them. Who_ knows_ how many more murders she would have gotten away with?" He spread his hands, palms up, in an _ipso facto _gesture.

"So all's well that ends well," the judge muttered, "even if it proves that I'm just as gullible as the next guy when a cute young thing says I'm the only one who can solve her problem?"

Mark nodded solemnly. "We all have to make sacrifices. You finding out you're merely human is a small price to pay for ending this."

"'Human', huh?"

"As in not perfect." Mark smiled.

And that faded almost at once into a sterner look as he added sharply, "Now get over it."

He hadn't been very certain what kind of a response _that_ was going to get. The reciprocating smile took him by surprise and made him wonder if he hadn't been wrong about the drug being out of Hardcastle's system. It was a smile not unlike the one he'd received the evening before, in this very room, when he delivered his little soliloquy on the importance of going after the bad guys. Maybe he'd managed to invoke the same cause again.

Whatever it was, the knowing expression still tugged at the judge's face as the older man turned in his chair, now facing the blank screen. "Ya could have a point there," he growled.

"Think so?" Mark said. His own smile was back as he turned slightly toward the set as well. Hardcastle picked up the remote and hit the 'on' button.

The TV had been previously left on one of the double-digit stations that catered to the judge's taste in movies. The scene that appeared was familiar enough to elicit a groan of recognition from McCormick.

"Not _In Old California_—it's in black and white," he pointed out, as if that put it, age-wise, somewhere before dirt.

Hardcastle sighed again, though this one seemed more in the spirit of tradition rather than from some deep-seated dysphoria.

"It's a classic," he said. "Anyway, there's nothing wrong with black and white. I _like _black and white."

Mark stifled a quick grin at this utterly normal tone, and shook his head slowly as he turned fully to face the flickering image. A little black and white for a change wouldn't hurt anyone.


End file.
